


we should just kiss (like real people do)

by retrograde_in_c_minor



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Fluff, Journalist Bellamy Blake, Light Angst, Princess Clarke Griffin, Roman Holiday AU, Strangers to Lovers, in which Murphy is the third wheel, kind of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-31
Updated: 2020-09-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:08:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26226163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/retrograde_in_c_minor/pseuds/retrograde_in_c_minor
Summary: Clarke Griffin is heir to a throne she doesn't want - a princess exhausted with her life of politics and parades.Bellamy Blake is a journalist desperate for his next big story, and the money that comes along with it.When the two meet on the streets of Rome - by chance, or by fate - Bellamy decides Clarke Griffin may be the big break he had been waiting for. Though Clarke doesn't realize it, she is the star of Bellamy's new exclusive. But when the two spend a day touring Rome together, Bellamy's plan begins to falter as he realizes Clarke is much more than naive, pampered royalty.Based on the movie 'Roman Holiday'Title taken from Like Real People Do by Hozier
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin
Comments: 2
Kudos: 23
Collections: Bellarke Big Bang 2020





	we should just kiss (like real people do)

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone!! I wrote this as my submission for [Bellarke Big Bang 2020!](https://bellarkebigbang.tumblr.com/), which was super fun to be a part of and I'm extremely grateful that I got to know everyone involved!  
> Also, a huge huge huge thank you to [ChaseTheWindAndTouchTheSky](https://chase-the-windandtouch-the-sky.tumblr.com/post/628027173594333185/we-should-just-kiss-like-real-people-do-by) for creating beautiful companion art for this fic. Her art is STUNNING (!!!) and I absolutely love the pieces she made for this event. 100% make sure to check it and all of her other work out!

The music is intoxicating. 

Clarke stands at the window of her extravagant room on the third floor of the embassy, curtains pulled back and arched windows flung open, listening to it drift through the window - the jazz much more alive than the endless orchestral music she’d spent hours suffering through at the ball earlier in the evening. 

An uncomfortable restlessness settles deep in her bones. As she leans farther out the window, Rome’s crisp night air almost soothing, she feels it itching under her skin, biting at her nerves. 

And she can’t quite place _why._

Clarke bites her lip, turning away from the window quickly, suddenly finding the music and the lights and the life outside unpalatable. It does no good to dream, she reminds herself. She was here to aid her country, her people - not wish she didn’t have to.

From across the room, Diana Sydney, the countess designated to accompany her on her tour, watches her, something like disapproval glittering in her eyes. 

The last two weeks with Diana Sydney constantly at her side had been exhausting. Clarke didn’t like her - not that she’d ever say it. Now, thin lips pressed together tightly, Diana crosses the room to Clarke in three long strides, pulling the window shut and letting the curtains fall across the glass.

Clarke says nothing. A deep silence fills the room, and she wonders if it’s enough to suffocate her.

The countess, however, hums softly to herself, satisfied as she drifts again across the room and picks up a small mug from the bedside table, pressing it into Clarke’s hands. “Here you are, my dear - now, if you don’t mind, I think it would be wise to review tomorrow’s schedule.”

  
It’s not a suggestion, not really. Clarke doesn’t have a choice in the matter. 

Instead of asking to stay at the window for just one more minute, instead of telling the countess no, _she really just wants to go to bed,_ she only smiles warmly, for what feels like the millionth time this evening. “Thank you, Countess,” she murmurs softly, gripping tightly to the mug of tea.

It’s a routine the two have fallen into easily the past weeks - the Countess comes into Clarke’s room shortly after night falls, helps her prepare for bed, gives her some kind of tea, reads through the next day’s schedule, and promptly leaves. 

Clarke doesn’t enjoy it.

Every night is the same, every night is expected. It’s too much and not enough at the same time. She wants _more._ Or less. Of what, exactly, she doesn’t know.

Again, that restlessness feels like lead in her veins, eating away at her. 

_She doesn’t have the luxury of wanting._ Not as a princess sent to parade around the continent strengthening alliances with her winning smile.

So she only offers the Countess a curt nod, climbing into the ornate four-poster bed in the middle of the room. 

Everything about the room, about the embassy in general, is ornate. The tasseled gold and scarlet rugs underneath her feet, the expensive lampshades, the shining silver candlesticks. Clarke can’t find it in herself to quite like them. It was the same at all the embassies - London, where she’d appeared at numerous events across the city. Amsterdam, where pre written speeches had been forced down her throat. Paris, where she’d cemented trade relations that she’d really had no part in. The cities blur together, and so do their embassies. 

_Always the same._

The Countess waits until Clarke is comfortable to sit on the edge of the bed, picking up a leather-bound book from the same bedside table. A pen in her hand, she flips it open, thumbing through the pages. Clarke watches with disinterest, mug warm in her hands. 

Finally, the Countess points to the top of one of the pages with her pen. “Big day tomorrow, your Highness,” she says excitedly. 

Clarke’s responding hum does not match her enthusiasm. 

_Always the same._

Oblivious to her disinterest, the Countess begins. “Breakfast is scheduled for eight-thirty, courtesy of the Embassy Staff. After that, we will attend a meeting at… Polinory Automotive Works - they’ve aided in our transportation throughout this tour, you know. You shall be presented with a car, I believe,” she remarks. 

“How kind of them,” Clarke stares into her mug. “And I’ll assume I’m meant to decline?”  
“Politely, yes.”

_Always the same._

It had been like this everywhere they had gone - pre-planned _‘no, thank you’_ s, and ‘ _you’re too kind’_ s Everything was orchestrated by the Countess and her correspondents, everything was synthetic. Of course it had been much the same at home, but after two weeks of laughing at politician’s painfully unfunny jokes and smiling so often her face hurt, exhaustion was beginning to set in.

It’s her duty, though, to play along. What she owes her country, her people, her parents. 

So she listens.

“Shortly afterwards, the agricultural organization will present you with an olive tree, which you _will_ accept. Graciously.” 

“A tree,” Clarke repeats dryly. 

“Yes, Clarke, a tree,” the Countess sighs through her nose. “The olive tree-”

“Is a symbol of peace,” Clarke finishes before her, knowing already what the Countess will tell her. “And will foster good relations between our people. I know.”  
Skepticism flashes across the Countess features. “Precisely. Just before eleven you’ll give a speech at a local orphanage - the same one as last week.”

  
“What does that have to do with orphans?” Clarke raises an eyebrow. 

“You’ll be talking about youth, Clarke,” she reasons. “Youth and progress. It will look good, dear, trust me.” Before Clarke can say anything else, the Countess continues on. “There’s a press conference at eleven forty-five; no different than it was in Paris.” 

Clarke hardly remembers Paris. Or Amsterdam. Or London. They were all the same, and she couldn’t find it in herself to particularly care about any of them - not truly. All the speeches that she’d given, the words that had spilled from her mouth - they weren’t hers. 

Her gaze drifts back to the window across the room, where she _knows_ that if she were to open it, she’d hear laughs of distant dancers and the smattered shouts of trumpets and saxophones. She’d hear Rome’s nighttime heartbeat in her ears and in her own body. 

Suddenly, the lack of it is strangling. 

It’s not until she takes a few steadying breaths that she realizes the Countess is still talking, voice dull and perfunctory. “...Four thirty, an introduction to the chief of police….”

Her voice feels very very loud, and Clarke feels very very small. 

Her hands tighten around the porcelain mug in her hands. “Stop.”

It comes more of a whisper, and the Countess continues, paying her no mind. “And then it’ll be back here to change. After that-”

“Stop.” Louder, this time. 

“ - We’ll then proceed to meet with the international -”

“ _Stop!”_ She sets the mug onto the bedside table, more forcefully than she’d meant. 

The Countess gives her a long look, closing the book shut with measured deliberateness. 

“I don’t - I don’t want to hear anything about schedules and meetings and speeches. Just - just stop.” Her voice is ragged, as if she’s pleading, and she pushes away the blankets around her. “Please.”

  
Something reminiscent of anger wraps itself around her brain, hot and violent and consuming. 

“Clarke, is something wrong? This is important.” Sydney’s brows are drawn in confusion, voice sickeningly sweet, and all Clarke wants is for her to get out. 

“I don’t care,” Maybe she’s being cold, or childish, but something in the back of her mind tells her that it doesn’t matter anyway. “I’m tired of - of this!” It’s frustration, now, that makes her clench her fists, nails digging into her palm. 

The Countess tuts in displeasure, standing from the edge of the bed to place the back of her hand on Clarke’s forehead. Clarke jolts away, glaring. “You’re ill, dear, that’s all. I’ll call for Doctor Jackson.”

  
“I don’t need Doctor Jackson,” Clarke snaps, and the Countess looks taken aback. It’s all the handshakes and anger and false pretenses of the past two weeks that well within her now, falling off the tip of her tongue. “Leave.”

  
She musters all sense of authority she has, which is, admittedly, very little. But it has to count for something, right?

The Countess only shakes her head, placing the book on the bedside table and looking at Clarke with pity. It only makes her angrier, more desperate.  
“ _Leave.”_

“It’s just nerves, Clarke,” the Countess finally says after a long moment of consideration, dismissive and scolding - like she’s speaking to a child. “I’ll fetch Jackson, he’ll help.”

Ignoring Clarke’s indignant protests, the Countess whirls on her heel, tossing a suspicious glance over her shoulder as she throws open the gilded doors and disappears into the hallway.

  
Clarke has half a mind to go after her, to make her _listen._ She’s not sick, she’s not nervous - she’s tired. 

But she stays sitting in her bed, staring daggers at the double doors as they fall shut. Running a hand through her hair, she draws her knees to her chest. Maybe she’ll get lucky - Diana Sydney is an easily distracted woman. Perhaps she’ll find something more interesting on her way to fetch Jackson, maybe she’ll forget to come back and press Clarke further. 

Bitterly, she thinks no amount of luck in the world would be enough to give her that. 

She takes a steadying breath, the blankets around her soft under her fingertips. _No use being upset. No use being frustrated. No use spending your time hating Diana Sydney, or General Kane, or the tour in general. This is your duty._

Her duty. Jaha had told her time and time again she’d do well to embrace it. She’ll try harder, then - she’ll listen to the Countess’ schedules, she’ll make herself believe the words she says, she’ll remember the names of the noblemen that greet her at balls. 

She’ll be better. She won’t listen to the restlessness roaring in her ears.

So when the Countess returns with Doctor Jackson on her heels, Clarke doesn’t beg them to leave once more. She stays quiet. 

Diana trails behind Jackson, worrying at her lip with her hands at her hips.

“I’m sorry,” Clarke apologizes immediately - to who, really, she doesn’t know. She convinces herself she believes it. “I shouldn’t have… I shouldn’t have been so upset.”

The Countess opens her mouth to say something, but Jackson speaks first. “You’ve had a long past couple weeks, your Highness,” he smiles kindly. “It’s normal - to be tired and upset.” Clarke has always liked Jackson - he’d been one of her family's doctors for five years now, handpicked by her mother. He treats her almost like a friend, and she’s grateful for it.

“Still,” the Countess interjects, hovering behind Jackson’s shoulder as he approaches the bed. “You’ll need to give her something for the nerves. You should have seen her - yelling, frantic. She’ll need to be feeling… better. For tomorrow’s events.”

  
It takes everything in Clarke to bite back an annoyed response.

Jackson sets a small bag down on the bedside table, pushing Clarke’s abandoned mug and the Countess’ book to the side. “Yes. I can give her this -” he pulls out a small syringe out of his bag, and Clarke tenses. “It’s to help you relax,” he explains hurriedly upon Clarke’s less than excited reaction. “Harmless.”

  
The Countess hums her approval. Clarke, knowing that what she has to say - if she had anything to say, anyway - wouldn’t particularly change anything, she begrudgingly extends her arm to Jackson. 

He gives her an appreciative nod, pressing the needle into her skin. Clarke inhales sharply, the countess glancing away.

Jackson quickly packs up his bag after that, putting away the now empty syringe. Clarke watches him, wrapping her arms around herself. “I don’t feel anything.”

  
“It takes time,” he says, giving her a quick squeeze of reassurance on the shoulder. “You’ll be feeling better soon. For now, just… try to relax.”

  
Clarke only nods numbly in response. “Thank you, Doctor Jackson.”

Jackson looks her over once more, as if trying to assess if anything else is wrong. He looks like he wants to say more. Instead, he turns to the Countess. “It’s best to let her rest,” he instructs. “She should be back to normal tomorrow morning.”

“Alright then,” Sydney hesitates before turning to Clarke. “I shall leave you, then, your Highness.” He links his arm with the Countess’, gesturing towards the door. 

Thankful for her haste, Clarke watches as Jackson slips out first, bag in hand. After the Countess gives Clarke one last doubtful look, she slips out of the room without another word, flipping the lights off as she goes.

Once the doors fall shut, Clarke turns onto her back, gazing at the dark ceiling above her. 

She tries to go to sleep - really, she does. She wrenches her eyes shut, trying to trick herself into thinking she _was_ relaxed, or maybe that she was never really upset to begin with. 

She has no right to be angry - that she knows. Not when she spends her nights dancing in arched ballrooms, spending her nights in rooms decorated with all the fineries she could imagine. Who is she to complain?

 _Don’t think about that. Sleep._ Isn’t that what Jackson’s drug was supposed to help her with? 

She doesn’t know if it’s only minutes that pass, or hours, or maybe even centuries. When she opens her eyes again, deeming sleep unattainable for the time being, she’s once again staring at the same ornately moulded ceiling, in the same smothering silence. 

That restlessness returns, itching under her skin, whispering in her ear. 

_Don’t listen._

She does.

She listens when it guides her out of bed and to the window, standing in front of the glass in her nightgown, bare feet brushing against the carpet. Her fingers find the latches easily, despite the darkness that hangs around her.

When the windows swing open, the night air sweeping into the room, soft against her face, the restlessness grows louder, more demanding.

Music still plays from the street below, and from her third story view, she can see a group of people dancing in the street below through a cluster of tall, neatly trimmed trees, the moon and the stars an attentive audience. She watches them with something that feels almost like jealousy - something rare to come by, for her. 

Closing her eyes once more, Clarke lets herself listen to the gentle laughter bouncing off the trees, the trombone glissandos from the jazz band, the hum of motors moving down the street.

Yes, it’s envy that whispers in one ear as she stands at the window. Restlessness whispers in the other.

So she decides to listen to them. And it’s with them - the jealousy that has made a home in her heart, and the restlessness that has nestled itself in her bones like an old friend - that she begins to plan. 

-

She knows it’s stupid, and reckless, and impulsive. 

She knows it, and she’s never been more proud of herself. 

Once Clarke has changed into something more practical than a silk nightgown - a plain white blouse, the first one she could find in her wardrobe, and a red skirt that doesn’t quite reach her ankles - she feels at least a little more prepared. 

Sneaking out can't really be _that_ difficult, she reassures herself. Picking up a pair of white gloves from her dressing table and pulling them on as she walks by, Clarke makes her way for the doors. She pauses, though, gloved fingers resting on the gold doorknobs. 

She could do this. She is going to do this.

She pulls them open. Just a little bit, at first, in case there's someone watching. It had been the right choice, she realizes, when she sees a guard - half-asleep, but a guard all the same - positioned across the hallway, just outside her door. 

Pulling the door closed with a resonating click that makes her wince, Clarke’s forehead creases in deliberation. She can’t risk leaving through the doors, then. If she gets caught… she can’t imagine the look on the Countess’ face.

Actually, scratch that. She can, and she decides she’d someday like to see it - the way the countess would splutter for words, the way her eyebrows would disappear up into her hairline.

Clarke can’t stop the grin that twists her lips when she thinks about it. 

It’s the thought of the disappointment on her father’s face and the hurt on her mother’s that would be inevitable upon her return home that makes her decide that getting caught isn’t an option.

  
She’d broken rules in the past before, like the time she’d kissed Finn Collins, a duke’s son, under the grand staircase of her family’s palace, or the time she and Wells Jaha had decided it was a brilliant idea to sneak a stray dog into her chambers.

But this was going to be different.

Searching around the room for another option, the lights now flicked on, Clarke’s gaze lingers on the open window once more. 

Approaching it with trepidation, she leans out, looking to the side for anything that could help in her escape. 

Her eyes land on a balcony farther along the building - maybe five meters away. Chewing on her lip, she looks at the small ledge outside her own window, which extends to meet up with the balconies platform. It’s thick enough to walk on, she decides, not giving herself time to second guess. 

It would have to be. 

Once more, she looks out at the cityscape, at the domed roofs and twinkling lights and plazas of Rome. It’s enough incentive for her to lift herself out the window and onto the ledge outside. 

The summer night air envelopes her like a blanket, and as she starts towards the balcony, she doesn’t quite feel scared. No, she feels like she’s flying.

She reaches the balcony before she even has the chance to look down. Then, she climbs over the stone railing, feet landing on the balcony’s platform. And it’s over. 

Without taking time to fully understand what she’d just done, Clarke rushes towards the glass doors, pulling them open without hesitation. The room next to hers is a sitting room, of sorts, and she doubts anyone will be in it at this hour.

When she enters the room, glancing around and seeing no one, she lets out an astonished laugh as she finds her own eyes in one of the many large mirrors decorating the walls. 

She looks behind her, at the now closed glass doors and the balcony with vines climbing up its railing. 

Hopefully that was the hardest part.

Clarke then finds another door leading out into a long corridor that she starts down, her shoes clicking against the marbled floors as she walks. Making her way through the maze of an embassy, she pauses occasionally, listening for any approaching footsteps.

She never hears any, though.

Eventually, she finds herself at a large staircase she hurriedly descends into an empty room with a large set of doors that appear to lead outside. Nearly running to them, Clarke pulls one of the doors open with caution. Outside, there’s a stretch of path underneath a blanket of stars, and the towering Embassy walls looming close by.

 _She’d forgotten about the walls._ There were sure to be guards surrounding the gates out. Still, she's not ready to give up quite yet.

Swallowing sharply, Clarke steps outside, glad for the apparent lack of guards patrolling the doors. Tucking her hair behind her ears as she lets the doors fall closed behind her, she starts down the path, keeping close to the Embassy’s tall, shadowed walls. 

She can’t let herself revel in the taste of her sudden freedom yet, though. She needs a way outside of the walls, needs a way into the city. 

And it doesn’t take her long to find it.

As she turns a corner, voices float through the air. She presses herself even closer to the walls, staying in the shadows. Ahead of her, a small supply truck sits in the middle of the path, while a man moves between a door into what she assumes is the Embassy’s kitchens and the truck, loading it with supplies. She watches for a moment, faintly intrigued.

And when the man disappears inside of the Embassy and doesn’t return to his truck, she decides to take her chance. 

Running hastily to the truck, she pushes away boxes and bags in the truck bed to make room for herself. It’s overwhelmingly stupid, she realizes as she climbs into the back, rearranging the mounds of supplies to hide herself. Overwhelmingly stupid, and again, she’s proud of it. 

When she hears footsteps against gravel, she stills, holding her breath. It’s too dark to see, but she can feel more bags being loaded into the truck. And then there’s silence, for a brief moment. 

It evaporates, though, when the rumble of an engine cuts through it, and Clarke jumps in surprise. 

She can feel the truck begin to move, and triumph floods through her body. Knees drawn to her chest, Clarke shoves a box of oranges to the side and out of her line of sight, so she can see above the bags and boxes to the night outside.

Squinting, she watches as the door to the kitchens grows farther and farther away. There’s a loud clang, and Clarke edges further towards the end of the truck, peering around it to see the Embassy gates open. 

Covering her mouth to silence her breathless laugh, Clarke returns back to her original position, hidden away from the guards that she knows monitor the gates with a constant, almost _irritating_ , vigilance. 

It makes her victory _that_ much sweeter, she supposes. 

She watches the guards and the gate and the wall and the embassy disappear behind her with a smug grin she knows no one will be able to see. When she decides she’s no longer at risk of being caught, she moves _all_ of the boxes and bags in front of her, clambering closer to the edge of the truck’s platform. The streets become more and more crowded the farther they move into Rome, and Clarke’s breath disappears from her lungs completely as she takes in the city around her. 

There’s people _everywhere._ They line the tables of sidewalk cafes and benches, chatting and laughing and beaming back and forth at each other. 

Clarke feels her face light up as she watches them. She settles into the truck, leaning against a bag of apples as her eyes hungrily search the scene around her. Some buildings are painted shades of faded yellow and cream and pink, while others are of proud white stone, or brick, all jumbled together with vines climbing up their walls and flower baskets hanging outside of windows. 

Resting her head against a box of wine bottles, battling a sudden weariness, Clarke continues to look out at the city around her, afraid that if she even blinks she’ll miss something.

Every streetlight, every musician playing at an intersection, every couple walking hand in hand down the sidewalk - she wants to see it all. She wants to feel it all. 

She doesn’t know how long she sits like that in the back of the truck, the occasional bumps and jolts of the road - and maybe her own stubbornness - the only things keeping her from falling asleep entirely. 

All she knows is that she’s never felt so at peace. Never felt so _happy._

And she wants it to last forever. 

She’s torn from her semi-conscious reflection, though, when the truck stops suddenly - for what, Clarke doesn’t know. What she does know, despite the exhaustion weighing her down more and more by the second, is that she can’t wait around to be found.

She takes the opportunity to clamber out of the truck, debating taking one of the bottles of wine with her. Ultimately, though, she decides against that last part, feet finding purchase against the cobbled street as she steps out of the truck mere moments before it continues on. 

The street she’s on now is busy, and she barely makes it to the sidewalk in time to avoid another car rushing towards her.

It’s strangely exhilarating, though - not knowing where she is, not _caring_ where she is.

A large fountain bubbles near the sidewalk, and Clarke leans over the railing to put a hand through a stream of water, giggling to herself. 

_Happy._

Fighting the urge to fall asleep on her feet, Clarke looks around her once more before starting down the sidewalk. She only has one night - she wants to see all she can.

Slipping in between crowds of people, she breathes in the comforting night air. Rome is at her feet, and all she has to do is keep walking. 

She wonders, then, what it would be like to live under Rome’s watchful night sky, to dance under its stars while a jazz band play nearby. Or what it would be like to laugh at a small sidewalk cafe table. 

What it would be like to truly be able to _live_ in Rome. 

She’ll never get to know that, though - that much she’s accepted.

What she does have, though, is this night. This _one_ night, to walk and see and breathe. To live. To be.

And as she makes her way down the sidewalk, farther into the heart of the city, she decides that that’s exactly what she’ll do.

* * *

Murphy had won. _Again._

If Bellamy hadn’t been sitting next to his friend the entire poker game, he would’ve been convinced his friend was cheating. Seemed, though, he was just lucky. 

Lucky, and real damn glad to not let any of them forget it. 

Shoving his hands in his pockets as he now descends the shabby staircase of Jasper’s apartment, Bellamy peers into the night ahead.

Jasper and Monty had begged him to stay and play another game after Murphy’s fifth triumph in two weeks, but Bellamy had declined - and not just to save his money from Murphy’s waiting hands. He has a press interview with some princess of a country he’d never particularly wanted to visit scheduled for the next morning, and he has no intent to miss it. 

Peering at a large city clock as he walks, Bellamy grimaces as he reads the time: already long past twelve. It’s a Friday night, though, and the streets are still fairly full as he makes his way down the street.

While he _could_ flag down a taxi, he doesn’t mind walking back to his apartment. Besides, his pockets are uncomfortable empty, only one five thousand lira bill left from Murphy’s complete and utter conquest. So he figures he’ll just make the twenty minute trek to his apartment on foot. 

The crowds begin to thin the farther he walks, and eventually, he finds himself more or less alone, now only offering the occasional nod at a passing stranger. 

It’s why he’s so surprised when he hears _her._

As he walks, a mumbling voice cuts through the silence, and it takes everything in Bellamy _not_ to jump out of his skin. When he turns to look, he sees a girl lying on a park bench, eyes closed and hair pooled around her head in the glow of a nearby streetlight. 

He slows as he approaches, brow furrowed. When she mumbles something unintelligible again, clearly half asleep, Bellamy rolls his eyes. She’s probably drunk - not his problem. 

He can’t stop himself, though, as she watches her start to shift, about to roll over - dangerously close to the edge of the bench. He lurches forward to steady her, keeping her from crashing to the concrete beneath. 

“Hey,” he says quickly, hands at her forearms. The girl blinks at him slowly, eyes glimmering with amusement. “Careful.” He helps her sit up, and she falls back against the back of the bench.

Her eyes close once more, head resting against the chair’s back almost like she’s about to fall asleep. “No, thank you.” she murmurs, speech slurred. 

Sighing sharply, Bellamy gives her shoulder a shake. “You need to wake up,” he tells her, looking at her expectantly. 

She stirs slightly. He watches impatiently as she grows a little more lucid. When her startling blue eyes open once more, she looks him over, almost unregistering. “Pleased to meet you,” she hums, gaze unfocused. 

“Yep,” Bellamy responds shortly. “Can’t really say the same.” Maybe it’s rude, but he’s tired, broke ( _thank you_ , _Murphy_ ), and he wants to go home. He doesn’t have time to help a girl who, from the looks of her, had spent the night drinking expensive alcohol that she couldn’t handle. “Listen - you need to get up. Otherwise you could get picked up by the police, which I’m sure isn’t what either of us want.”

Her face falls, almost like she doesn’t understand. “The police?”

“Yeah. Police.” He crosses his arms, unimpressed. 

She only shakes her head once more, proceeding to mumble something about a schedule - “Breakfast at eight thirty,” she begins, nose crinkled in concentration. “After that… no car, thank you.”

  
Bellamy scoffs in disbelief as she continues on, running a hand through his hair. Maybe he should just leave her, pretend he hadn’t come across the girl in the first place. 

“You know,” he chides, jaw set. “Maybe you shouldn’t drink so much, if you can’t even manage to stay awake afterwards.” It comes out sharp, but that’s not what he’s concerned about. He just wants her to get up and go, and then he could leave in good conscience - and maybe with good karma. 

She doesn’t respond at first, looking at him in consideration. After a long moment, she laughs at something - a joke only apparently she hears. “Any moment might be our last,” she says, and Bellamy does a double take. “Everything is more beautiful because we’re doomed. We…”

She trails off, not seeming to remember the rest. Bellamy, at last, sits on the bench besides her with a huff, mouth in a thin line. “You will never be lovelier than you are now.” 

She looks at him in confusion. 

“That’s the rest,” Bellamy adds hurriedly. “You will never be lovelier than you are now. We will never be here again. From-”

“-The Illiad,” they both conclude at the same time. 

Pleased with herself, the girl beams. Bellamy doesn’t return it, instead giving her an incriminating stare. “How’d you get here, then? I mean, there’s better places to take a nap than a bench.”

The girl laughs at this. “Oh! I was… I was walking, and there were _people,_ and - and there was dancing and laughter. And I was _so happy_ -”

She stops after that, running out of things to say. Maybe she’d gotten lost, then. Lost and drunk - not a spectacular combination. 

“Wanna tell me your name, at least?”

It takes her a moment, almost like it’s difficult to remember. At last, she speaks. “Princess -” Before she can finish, she cuts herself off with a loud yawn, covering her mouth the back of her gloved hand. 

_Of course._ Not only does she have money, if her clothes told him anything, she’s evidently full of herself. He surprised, a little, that she was in this part of the city - the more expensive apartments are miles away.

Eyebrow raised in skepticism, Bellamy shakes his head. “Is that it?”

“What?”  
Bellamy blinks at her. “Your name, is that - you know what, never mind. Can you get up, now?”

The girl doesn’t answer, instead rubbing at her face, head dangerously close to resting on his shoulder. Unamused, he moves away from her, farther down the bench.

They both look up, however, at the sound of an approaching car. As it gets closer, he can see the dimly glowing light of a taxicab on top. He rises from the bench without a second thought, waving it down as it approaches. 

As it pulls to the curb, the driver barely visible in the dim streetlight, Bellamy looks back at the girl, who’s returned to lying on the bench. He could take the taxi, and he knows it - leave, pretend he’d never met her, and never think about it again. 

Except he knows he _would_ think about it again, and he’d feel guilty about it, too. 

So instead of opening the taxi door and never looking back, Bellamy signals for the driver to wait with an apologetic glance. He turns to the girl on the bench, walking back towards her. “Alright, look, _princess,”_ he starts. “Take the taxi. Tell the driver your address, go home, drink some coffee, and sleep somewhere that isn’t a public city bench.” 

She doesn’t move, staring at the night sky above them, and Bellamy grits his teeth, glancing behind him to make sure the taxi hasn’t left. He offers a hand to the girl, and she takes it, rising to her feet unsteadily. “That’s it,” he tells her, gesturing to the taxi. She laughs again, finding something apparently funny. It takes everything in Bellamy not to roll his eyes. “Have you got any money?” He asks as he helps her to the taxi. 

It takes her a moment to comprehend what he’s asked. “Why would I carry… why would I carry money?” She struggles through the sentence. 

Instead of taking the time to decipher what she means by _that,_ Bellamy lets go of her arm to search through his pocket, finding only the bill he has leftover from Murphy’s triumph. He doesn’t know how much he’d have to give her for the taxi ride, or how much will be leftover after. And it’s not like he can just hand over the _rest_ of his money he has with him to her. “Fine,” he says after a long beat of frustrated contemplation. “I’ll drop you off, then.”

He gestures for her once more to get in the taxi, biting his lip. He climbs in after her, the both of them packed in the small backseat.

The girl looks around the car. “It’s a taxi,” she comments, something like awe in her voice as she glances out the windows.

Bellamy suppresses a groan. “Funny, I thought it was a submarine.”  
The driver clears his throat impatiently.

Bellamy offers him a quick apology in Italian before turning back to the girl. “Alright - what’s your address?”  
Her eyes are closed again, head resting against the cold window besides her. She turns to face Bellamy, a soft smile on her face. “Hmm?”  
“Your address. You know, the place where you _live_?”

The blonde only closes her eyes once more. “I don’t think I have one,” she muses. “Tell him… tell him the Colosseum. Or the Pantheon. Or,” her tone grows more excited, “tell him the Catacombs.”

Bellamy is nowhere near amused as she is, voice rough as he speaks next. “I don’t think you live in the Catacombs, princess. You can’t be _that_ drunk.”  
“No, I don’t think so,” she agrees, eyes searching his. “Just happy. ‘We will never be here again’” She starts to recite once more as she turns back to the window, and Bellamy sighs.

“Happy, and unhelpful,” he mumbles under his breath, leaning towards the driver. He tries to explain the situation to him as best as he can, his Italian broken and probably incomprehensible. Still, the driver raises an eyebrow expectantly, wanting directions. They can’t just sit here forever - Bellamy knows that.

So, reluctantly, Bellamy gives him his. “Via Marguta, fifty-one,” he lists with resignation.

The cab driver, delighted with finally having an answer, sets the car in motion, and Bellamy looks once more at the girl next to him, already half-asleep.

Once they get to his apartment, he’ll just give her whatever change the driver returned after he’d paid for his ride, tell her to go wherever she wanted. If she chooses the Catacombs, or the Colosseum, that wouldn’t be his responsibility. He’s already done enough - more than that, if you asked him. 

The ride is uneventful, the taxi driver silent and the girl beside him barely even conscious, occasionally mumbling something about how incredibly _happy_ she is, which Bellamy figures at least makes one of them. 

After an excruciatingly long five minutes that somehow manage to feel to Bellamy like seven centuries, the cab pulls towards the curb in front of his apartment. Something similar to relief floods his veins. 

Hurriedly, he pulls out his money to pay the driver. The girl in the seat next to him doesn’t stir. Bellamy waits as the driver counts his change, handing it back, but Bellamy waves his hand. “No - keep it,” he says, nodding at the blonde. “When she wakes up, just… take her where she wants to go, please.”

  
Hoping he understands but not waiting for his response, Bellamy leaves the cab without so much as another glance at the girl in the car. He’d done his part - he hadn’t been under any obligation to help her in the first place. What he’d done was enough. Besides, there’s nothing more he can really do - he’s not her babysitter.

He’s almost made it to the gate when the cab driver rolls down his window, shouting in his direction. With an inward sigh, Bellamy turns back to the cab, taking the couple steps back towards it.

“Look,” he tries to explain as the driver gives him a heavy glare. “I don’t… I don’t even _know_ her. She won’t tell me her name.” He gestures to the girl still sitting in the backseat. “She’s not my problem.” 

“The girl is not _my_ problem,” the driver replies, accent thick.

Bellamy knows he’s right, but still: “She can tell you where to take her when she wakes up. Please.” He didn’t have another choice.

But the driver shakes his head, adamant. “No, no. That is not my job. If you don’t want her, give her to the police.” He can see the patience draining from the driver’s face, and Bellamy knows he’s running out of time.

  
For a moment, he considers it - just turning her into the police for the night and never giving her a second thought. He knows, though, he’ll feel guilty about it later.

So, after a long moment of deliberation, he comes to the conclusion that he’s out of options. 

“Fine, fine,” he assures the driver, opening the back door for the girl, tugging on her shoulder to urge her out.  
He watches as she looks around the dimly lit street, still in the car. “Last chance, princess,” Bellamy tells her, not making an effort to hide the agitation in his tone. “Still don’t know your address?”

“I told you - anywhere. Everywhere.” She slurs.

“I’ll take that as a no, then.”

He helps her out of the car in annoyance, jaw set. He knows this is a mistake, knows he’ll regret it. Still, it’s not like he can just _leave_ her - no matter how desperately he wants to. 

The driver hands him back his change as Bellamy helps the girl steady herself. The pair is barely safely on the sidewalk, cab doors finally closed, before the car speeds off. 

Then, they’re alone, stars hanging above them and a nearby street light flickering on and off. 

She’s looking around them, a wide smile on her face like the building in front of them is the most fascinating thing she’s ever seen - which it is definitely _not._

Vines creep up the walls surrounding the gates that lead through the barren courtyard, and the paint of the building has flaked away in many places. Still - it’s the closest thing to home he’s had the past two years in Italy. He’s a little attached to it. 

Begrudgingly, he extends his hand to her, guiding her through the gates and into the courtyard. The trek up the stairs is harder, and she trips up nearly every step. Once, she nearly falls backwards, and Bellamy has to lurch forwards to catch her.

She only laughs to herself about it, and even he can’t deny that everything about this is a little funny. Still - not funny enough to laugh. Her amusement is nowhere near shared. 

When they reach the second story, he sets off down the hall, not looking behind him to make sure the girl is keeping up. Her half-coherent muttered observations following him are enough to know she’s close.

He digs through his pockets for his keys as he approaches his door, the brown wood a welcoming sight. Still, he pauses before he opens it, taking a moment. 

He doesn’t know _why_ he was doing this. He doesn’t owe this girl anything - on the contrary, she already owed him quite a bit, starting with two thousand lira. He’s never been a philanthropist, or even a superb person. 

Maybe he’s not really doing it for her, then. Maybe it’s just him trying to save himself a load of unnecessary guilt, he muses. 

He tosses one last regretful look over his shoulder, only to see the girl standing in front of his neighbors door, hand in front of it like she’s about to knock. He lurches forward, grabbing her arm before she can wake anyone up, and steers her back towards his door while she mumbles again about how annoyingly happy she is. 

It’s not a mutual sentiment. 

He swings open the door with little fanfare, flipping the lights on as he enters his apartment. The blonde stumbles in behind him, features morphin into absolute, unbridled joy when she enters. “A closet!”

He wonders what her closet looks like, if that’s what she thinks this is. Maybe he _will_ be asking her to repay him for the cab ride.  
It takes everything in Bellamy not to march her right back out the door. “I’m wounded,” he deadpans. “It’s my room.”

Again, it’s not much, but it’s Bellamy’s, and that’s always been enough for him. He moves further into the room, leaving her behind in the doorway as she takes everything in, and turns on the small table lamp resting on his desk.

  
When he turns to face her again, her skin is pale, and she looks on the verge of throwing up. Bellamy mentally decides that if she _does_ throw up, he’s kicking her out, guilt be damned. “Are you feeling alright?” He questions cautiously.

  
She staggers forwards, towards the bed, leaning against its frame. “I don’t think so,” she answers slowly. “Am I supposed to sleep here?”

“I mean, that’s the idea. Here-” he pulls open his wardrobe, finding a pair of spare pajamas and handing them to the girl. She stares at them for a long moment before she takes them. 

“I’ve never worn pajamas, you know,” she drawls, eyes alight as she observes the pajamas in her hands. “Just nightgowns.”

  
_God,_ it just gets worse and worse. “Unfortunately, princess, I’ve only got one nightgown and that’s actually what I was planning on wearing, so you’re out of luck.” He tries to keep his voice even, tries to keep his patience, despite the fact that he’s standing in his room in the middle of the night with some girl he’s never met and would have been perfectly happy to never _have_ met. 

She giggles at that, still standing in the middle of the room, almost like she’s waiting for something. 

“Bathroom’s through that door,” Bellamy offers, nodding in the direction of the door. “To change.”  
Still, she doesn’t move. 

“Do you need anything else?”

  
She considers this for a moment. “No,” she muses. “I’m just very happy, I think.”

  
“Yeah, you’ve mentioned,” Bellamy informs her, meeting her unfocused gaze. “Wish I could say the same.”

Again, she laughs, delighted. “Has anyone ever told you how rude you are?” She implores, still clutching the pajamas. 

“Oh, yeah, loads of times,” he exaggerates, rolling his shoulders back as he searches through a small closet for extra blankets. He hadn’t had anyone over for a while - none of his friends in the States had been able to afford a visit, and Octavia had only recently just started sending him letters again. He didn’t think anyone had ever actually stayed in his apartment. “Has anyone ever told you how frustrating _you_ are?” 

She moves towards the bathroom door at last, stumbling across the room as if in a daze. At his words, however, she stops in the doorframe. “You know,” she says at last, tone a little more serious. “I don’t think anyone has.” It’s not hurt that flashes across her face, though - more like consideration.

  
“Yeah, well,” Bellamy says gruffly, finally pulling out a stack of blankets. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

  
She disappears into the bathroom at last, leaving Bellamy alone at last. He runs a hand through his hair, not for this first time tonight wondering how he’d gotten _here,_ letting a complete stranger into his apartment well past midnight. 

With an exasperated sigh, he lays the blankets out on the long, ugly red ottoman across from the bed, glancing towards the bathroom door. 

Next, he locates a bottle of wine from the table by the door, uncorking it and pouring himself a considerable glass. When the girl returns from the bathroom, he’s sitting on the chair next to his desk, glass in hand. 

She gives him a long stare, standing in his pajamas. 

“You’re already drunk,” he defends, giving her a half shrug. “I figured we should be even. You know, to make it fair.” 

She shakes her head, corners of her lips twitching upwards in a smile. “I’m not drunk at all. I said that.”

 _Not drunk at all his ass._ He doesn’t know if he’s ever seen _anyone_ handle their liquor this terribly. “Yeah, alright,” Bellamy concedes. “If that’s the hill you’re choosing to die on.” 

Before she has a chance to respond, he rises dramatically from his chair, setting the glass on the table. “I’m going to get changed. You can sleep there,” he gestures to the ottoman with the blankets. “Sorry, princess, but the bed’s mine.” Maybe it was selfish, but he felt like he’d already given up enough from her tonight. 

He slips into the bathroom without waiting for an answer, grabbing his own pajamas from the wardrobe as he passes it. He hears, though, her quiet mumble of, “You may withdraw,” as he leaves her. 

_Of course._ Giving him permission to leave his own room. 

When he enters the bathroom, he’s glad for the quick solitude. It doesn’t last long, though - as soon as he’s changed, he returns to his room, afraid to leave the girl alone for more than a couple minutes at a time. God knows the trouble she could cause. 

However, he freezes as soon as he steps into the room. The blonde is already passed out on his bed, blankets around her. The ottoman remains empty. 

_Hell no._ He’d specifically told her the ottoman was hers. This isn’t _her_ apartment, or closet, or whatever she wanted to call it. And he isn’t particularly in the mood to be a gracious host. 

He slams the bathroom door shut behind her, hoping it’s enough to wake her so he can tell her to move. 

It’s not. 

Glowering at her unconscious form, he takes two quick strides to the ottoman, and begins dragging it towards the bed. Once it’s lined up with the edge of the mattress, Bellamy moves to the other side of the bed. He shoves his hands in his pockets, biting his lip and he tries to figure out the best way to complete his tasks.  
There isn’t a best way, really, he ultimately decides. 

First, he pulls one of the multiple pillows out from under the girl’s head, throwing it across the bed and onto the ottoman. Then, grimacing, he reaches under the sheets of the bed, and in one quick motion, pulls them upwards at an angle, which causes the girl to roll off the mattress and onto the ottoman waiting next to it. 

Letting the sheets fall once more, Bellamy looks at his work, satisfied with himself. The girl - he still doesn’t know her actual name, he realizes - doesn’t wake, an arm hanging off the ottoman she’s now sprawled across. 

Out of the kindness of his heart, he decides to throw another blanket over her. “So happy,” he hears her mumble, voice slurred from sleep. 

Shaking his head as he takes a long sip of wine, Bellamy scoffs. “Pleasure’s all mine, princess.”

* * *

He wakes before her the next morning, sunlight streaming through the small windows of his small flat. The resonating ring of one of the city’s many clocks draws him from sleep, marking noon. 

Bellamy squints as he opens his eyes, city bells still ringing, and for a moment, he enjoys it. Enjoys it - until he realizes it's a sound he usually hears from a crowded office across the city. And in that moment, he swears his heart stops clean in his chest. 

He sits up so fast in bed the world blurs around him, fumbling for the silent alarm clock on the nightstand next to him. He reads the time, blinks, reads it again. Wishes it was lying.

Noon. It’s noon, he’s late for work, and - 

_ The princess interview.  _

The thought comes to him with a stomach churning force. He was supposed to interview the princess today, was supposed to meet Murphy at the embassy for the press session - fifteen minutes ago.

_ Pike is going to be pissed.  _

That’s the only thought he can conjure up, dread seeping into his skin. Unceremoniously, he tosses the alarm clock back onto the night stand in annoyance, the following thump of something else falling to the floor in its wake bringing him only a small beat of satisfaction. 

The almost mocking ringing of the bells quiets as he begins to move, stumbling out of bed. His eyes catch on the girl lying still asleep on the couch besides his bed, and this time, he can’t suppress his frustrated groan. He’d almost forgotten about her.

Running a hand through his hair, he makes his way to the windows, peeling back the dusty curtains to peer outside. Young kids are running up and down the block, shouting at each other in quick Italian, and the sun is bright in the sky, almost taunting. 

“ _ Shit,”  _ Bellamy mutters, letting the curtains fall once more as he moves to his wardrobe, searching for something somewhat presentable. Vaguely, he registers the girl across the room mumble something in her sleep, voice soft. 

It only annoys him more, and he rolls his eyes sharply, making a point to slam the bathroom door shut behind him, haphazardly brushing his teeth and changing into the scratchy suit he’d dug up from his wardrobe. 

When he exits, the girl is still asleep, hair spilling across the thin pillow he’d given her. A part of him wonders if he should wake her up, but if he does, she’ll ask questions, only making him later than he already is. Besides, she’s not his responsibility - he doesn’t owe her anything more. He's already given her more than he should’ve, and now he might lose his job because of it. 

She is perfectly capable of showing herself out on her own, he decides after a moment of hesitation, his hand resting on the doorknob to his apartment. He’ll go to work, deal with Pike, somehow get that princess interview, and when he arrives back home later, the girl who’d managed to ruin his day before it had even really started will be gone. 

He’ll never have to be bothered with her again, and he's glad for it.

-

When he stumbles out of the taxi that pulls to the curb in front of the looming American News Service office, passing a handful of coins to the driver's hands with a quick ‘thank you’, the dread begins to set in. 

The interview with Princess Clarke was everything; Pike was paying him enough for it to cover half his rent for the month. And he  _ missed  _ it. 

Slipping quickly through the glass doors into the building, the familiar, incessant tap of typing fills his ears, growing only louder as he climbs the stairs two at a time, making his way to the second floor of the office. 

Monty’s the first to spot him, hands pausing over the typewriter as he flashes a quick smile. “Morning, Bellamy.”

Harper, sitting in her secretary desk across from his, echoes Monty. “Pike’s been looking for you,” she adds pointedly, rolling her eyes as Bellamy grabs her coffee mug from her desk without warning, taking a quick sip before setting it back down. 

The office is empty save for the three of them, along with Gabriel having a heated conversation with someone over the phone in the corner of the room. Monty offers him a sympathetic grin, returning to his typing.

“Lovely,” is all Bellamy answers with, stealing a piece of toast from Harper’s desk as well. She lets out a cry of protest, pulling her plate closer to her. “With any luck, Pike will fire you,” she teases as he makes his way towards the door to Pike’s office, giving it a quick knock. He gives Harper a look of mock offense as he finishes the toast before swinging the door open, and she shakes her head in amused frustration before returning to her work.

The scene within Pike’s office is far different, Bellamy notes, as he enters the room with unease. 

Pike, standing at his window overlooking the city, whirls around upon Bellamy’s entry. 

Bracing himself, Bellamy lets the door fall shut behind him. “Morning,” he greets, hoping his voice sounds more confident than he feels. “Heard you were looking for me. I’m honored.”

Pike scoffs at that, moving to sit on the large leather chair behind his desk. “Nice of you to finally grace us with your presence, Blake.”

“It’s my pleasure,” Bellamy answers with a half shrug. 

Unamused, Pike gives Bellamy a long look. “You know we start our days in this office at 8:30, Blake. We come in and pick up our assignments, and-”

Before he can think, Bellamy interrupts Pike’s lecture. “I already picked mine up. Last night.”

“Oh?” Pike raises an eyebrow in skepticism. “And which assignment would that be?”

“The interview with Princess Clarke - eleven forty-five,” Bellamy lies nonchalantly, like it should be obvious. All he can do is pray that Pike believes him. 

“You’ve already been to the interview?”

  
“Oh, yeah,” Bellamy assures his boss, growing gradually more self-assured. “Just got back, actually.” He watches Pike with feigned disinterest, leaning against the edge of his desk. He didn’t know what he’d do when Pike expected the article to be delivered, but for now, Bellamy’s only goal was making it out of Pike’s office with his job intact. After that… Well, he’d figure something out. 

“My apologies, then,” Pike murmurs, and Bellamy feels the tension seep from his bones. 

  
Straightening, Bellamy gives Pike a nod before stepping back towards the door, freedom finally within reach. “Don’t worry about it,” he says casually, reaching for the doorknob. 

“Wait, Bellamy - Tell me,” Pike begins again, standing from his desk once more. Suppressing a sigh, Bellamy drops his hand from the doorknob, turning to face Pike for the second time. “Did she answer all the questions on the list? The one you picked up last night, of course.”

  
Throwing himself out the window behind Pike is becoming more and more appealing, Bellamy decides. “Of course she did,” he answers, trying to stifle his irritation. The last thing he needs is to upset Pike even more - he’s already well aware that he’s on thin ice. “I’ve got them somewhere,” he mutters, searching his pockets for the list of questions he knows he doesn’t have. 

Thankfully, Pike interrupts his search before he’s forced to come up with another half-baked lie. “No, don’t trouble yourself,” he says with a wave of his hand. “I have a copy right here.” He pulls a folded slip of paper from a pile on his desk, and Bellamy moves closer to him to read it over his shoulder, 

Pike trails a finger down the list of questions Bellamy was never actually able to ask the princess, and Bellamy feels his stomach flip. “How did Princess Clarke react to the idea of a European Federation?” Pike asks, tone laced with curiosity. 

Struggling for words, Bellamy pretends to consider the question. He doesn’t know anything about a European Federation - doesn’t particularly care about one, either. “She thought it was a brilliant idea.” He remarks, picking up a small figurine of the Colosseum from Pike’s desk and turning it over, analyzing it like it’s the most fascinating thing in the world.

“Oh?” Pike prompts further. “Interesting.”

_ Shit.  _ Had he said the wrong thing? With his wildly amazing luck, the princess might be an advocate  _ against  _ a European Union - whatever that meant, anyways. If so, he’d already screwed himself over - he can’t abandon his story now. 

“I mean, obviously the princess thought there would be…” He stalls for a moment. “Two effects.”

He holds his breath, waiting for Pike’s response.  _ Two effects.  _ God, it kept getting worse and worse. He sets down the small silver figurine, trading it for a container of paper clips that he picks up, sitting on the edge of Pike’s desk.

“Two.”

  
“Two.” Bellamy confirms, silently pleading for Pike to drop it. “The indirect, and the… the direct, of course.” Again, the third floor window beckons.

Pike watches him with scrutiny. “Fascinating,” he drawls, waiting for Bellamy to elaborate.

He’s opening his mouth again before he has time to come up with anything comprehensible, internally kicking himself. “She thought… she thought that the indirect would not be as direct as the - as the direct,” he stutters. “Naturally.”

“A remarkable observation,” Pike comments, looking back towards his list of questions. “And how did her Highness feel about the future friendship of nations?”

“Youth,” Bellamy answers before he has the chance to decide what he actually means by it. He  _ knows  _ he’s really toeing the line this time - he just has to stay one step ahead of Pike, that’s all. 

“Youth?”

“Yes - youth,” he says with a feigned tone of wisdom. “She felt that the youth of the world will lead the way to a better… world.” He sets the container of paper clips back onto Pike’s desk, giving his boss a tight lipped smile.

“Wonderful, wonderful…” Pike returns to his seat. “And what was the princess wearing?”

  
“What?” The question catches Bellamy off guard. “You mean… her clothes?” He stares blankly at Pike, who gives him a curt nod as he leans back into his chair.   
“Yes, Mr. Blake. Her clothes.”

Bellamy can’t help the way he nervously adjusts his tie, fiddling with the fabric between his fingers. “Something wrong, Bellamy?” Pike interrogates, watching with interest.

Shaking his head, Bellamy forces his hands to his sides. “Oh, no. I just hurried here, that’s all. From the embassy, I mean,” he laughs nervously. 

Pike places a hand on his shoulder with a chuckle. “Of course. You said she was wearing gray?”

Bellamy furrows his brow “No, I didn’t say that.” Had he? He can’t remember. The room starts feeling warmer and warmer, Pike’s careful stare piercing. The man sitting in front of him is impossible to read, and all Bellamy can do is pray he believed his sloppy lies. 

“Well, she usually wears gray,” Pike furthers, rummaging through some of the papers that litter his desk. His eyes finally leave Bellamy, and the latter feels like a weight has been lifted from his shoulders.

Latching onto this, Bellamy feigns careful consideration. “It was a type of gray, I suppose,” he corrects. “I don’t really know how to explain it…” he finishes, trailing off into oblivion, hoping Pike provides him with more.

His boss rises from his desk, a stack of papers in his grasp. Bellamy loses a breath he hadn’t known he was holding, assuming Pike had nearly finished with his endless questions. “Ah, yes, I think I know the dress you mean; it’s got a gold collar-”

“Yes!” Bellamy grins, almost a little too excitedly. “Yes, that’s the one, definitely.” He has no idea what Pike is talking about, of course, but it’s easy to fake his enthusiasm. “I just hadn’t known how to describe it, that’s all.”

  
“No, you described it well,” Pike reassures him, and Bellamy stands to face the man, edging closer to the door, almost as though he could taste the freedom it offered. However, when he speaks next, his tone is laced with rage. “Considering that Princess Clarke was taken  _ violently ill  _ last night, and has subsequently had  _ all  _ of her appointments - every single one of them, Mr. Blake, for the rest of the day - cancelled!”

It takes Bellamy a moment to process his words. After a beat of silence, he clears his throat with a grimace. “All of them?” His voice is quiet. 

“ _ All  _ of them.” 

“That’s…” Bellamy grasps for words, swallowing sharply as he avoids Pike’s hard gaze. “That’s very surprising.”   
_ He is so screwed.  _

He supposes he’s lucky, maybe, that the press session did get cancelled - he won’t have to cobble together some desperate replica of a story later. Still, Pike’s anger is almost tangible. “I’d imagine, in view of the fact that you apparently just left her company,” he seethes, shoving one of the papers in his hands towards Bellamy. “It’s the front page of every newspaper in Rome, and you breeze in here claiming to have just spoken to her!”

Numbly, Bellamy takes the paper, eyes landing on the bolded headline reaffirming what Pike had just told him: Princess Clarke had fallen ill the previous night, had been put to bed with a fever, and had cancelled every single public appearance scheduled for the day.

His dread evaporates, instead replaced with vague annoyance. “Look - I slept in, that’s all. It can happen to anybody,” he explains, voice pleading. 

Pike’s expression sours. “Perhaps you should try getting up early enough to read the morning papers,” he scolds, voice raised as he shoves another paper - this one in Italian - into Bellamy’s hands. “Maybe then you can avoid getting caught in such an  _ extravagant  _ lie as you’ve just managed, Mr. Blake.”

Bellamy doesn’t answer again, eyes catching on the large black and gray photograph printed on the paper he now grasps. “Is this her?” He asks, not looking up at Pike. 

“What?”

  
“The princess - is this her?” He turns the paper so Pike can see it, pointing at the photograph. 

“Of course that’s her! I would have assumed you would know, considering you were interviewing her only minutes ago, apparently.”

Returning his attention to the photograph once more, Bellamy’s heart stutters in his chest. “I’m not… I’m not fired, right?” It’s the most he can get out, voice thick. 

“If I were going to fire you, you’d know,” Pike scoffs, shaking his head as he walks back around his desk. 

  
At this, Bellamy’s head snaps up. He folds the paper in half before shoving it into his pocket, turning to face Pike once more. “How about I make you a deal, then.”

  
“A deal?”

  
“A deal,” Bellamy confirms with sudden confidence. He can’t erase the photograph of Princess Clarke from his mind - the regal detachment in her gaze, the half smile playing across her lips. It’s all too familiar, too reminiscent. “Tell me - how much would an interview with her royal Highness be worth?”

  
“What, because you’ll be able to pull one from thin air, Mr. Blake?” Pike sneers. 

Bellamy offers him a half-shrug, pressing on. “If I  _ did  _ get one, how much would you pay me?”

  
Considering this for a moment, Pike looks Bellamy over, confusion evident in his features. “It depends,” he starts slowly. “On what kind of  _ interview.  _ If it was just words, the same things she’s told everyone else time and time again… maybe two hundred. Two hundred and fifty, if I’m being generous.”

  
Bellamy doesn’t answer, waiting for more,  _ needing  _ more. Two hundred and fifty dollars is nothing to laugh at, but he knows he can get more from the man standing in front of him. 

Noticing his expectancy, Pike sighs. “If you managed to get her to talk about clothes, you know, fashion, about anything of real interest, really - that’d be more. A thousand, maybe,” he says skeptically.

A thousand dollars. Even the thought of it makes Bellamy want to grin. A thousand dollars - that could be enough for a ticket back to the states, back  _ home.  _ Back to Octavia, and the city, and a  _ real  _ news service. 

It’s what he’s been wanting for months, now - a chance to go home. And this could be it - his last story for a mediocre news service and an even more mediocre. Bellamy can almost taste the victory on his tongue. 

Still, he knows he can get more, knows he practically already  _ has _ more. “I could get more than just her opinions on  _ clothes,  _ Pike,” he tells his boss with a smirk, leaning once more on his desk. Pike watches him carefully, unable to hide his intrigue. “I could get her opinions on  _ everything.  _ Imagine this, Pike,” he declares. “The private and secret longings of Princess Clarke Griffin; all information revealed to me in an unprecedented - and  _ very exclusive  _ \- interview.”

This could be everything - it could give him everything he wants. He just needs Pike on board, and a few days to get the story, and he could be back home in his own apartment by the end of the month. It feels so close, so doable now, yet still so impossibly far away. 

_ Trust me,  _ he wants to shout.  _ Listen to me.  _

Instead, he waits.   
At first, Pike doesn’t respond, gaping at Bellamy with unimpressed disbelief. Bellamy lets out a dramatic sigh, giving Pike a regretful smile. “Didn’t think you’d like it, anyway,” he admits with false sadness, standing from the edge of Pike’s desk before making his way to the door. “It’s too bad - it could’ve been good,” he laments. 

Before he reaches the door, Pike is on his feet. “Wait - Mr. Blake,” he hurries. “With pictures, of course?”

  
It takes everything in Bellamy to stop a triumphant grin from spreading across his face. “I suppose,” he murmurs. “Depends on how much it’d be worth.”

After a moment of hesitation, Pike huffs. “Five grand,” he forces out, voice almost pained. “To anyone, that is, so don’t think about selling to someone else.”   
And that easily, Bellamy knows he’s won. Still, it’s not over yet - he still has to get the story. Not that it will be particularly hard. 

Pike doesn’t let him enjoy the thrill of success quite yet, though. “And just how are you planning on getting this exclusive interview, Mr. Blake?” He demands, eyes narrowed. “In case you’ve forgotten, the princess has cancelled  _ all  _ interviews, as you so had the pleasure of finding out only minutes ago.”

Bellamy answers without missing a beat, giving his boss a wink. “It’ll be easy,” he says shortly. 

_ He hopes. _

He continues, not giving Pike the time to rebuke him. “You said five grand? Shake on it, then.”

For the briefest moment, Pike pauses, and Bellamy falters. If Pike goes back on his deal, decides it’s not worth it, decides not to trust him… then he’s lost it. 

But his doubt doesn’t last long, Pike reaching out to grasp Bellamy’s hand, giving it a quick shake with mild exasperation. 

“I have a story to write, then,” Bellamy concludes, offering Pike a nod before trying - once again in vain - to make his way out the door.

Pike stops him only moments away from freedom. “Not yet.”

Bellamy’s stomach drops. There shouldn’t be a no, or a but, or a not quite. He has this interview practically in his grasp already, and he’s not going to let Pike take it away from him. 

Still, he stops, repressing his irritation to listen to his boss. 

“Let’s make another bet, since you were so excited about your first one.” Bellamy knows Pike well enough to know this is  _ not  _ a bet he’ll want to make. He listens, though, as Pike continues. “You know, of course, that the princess is scheduled to travel to Greece - to Athens - tomorrow morning.”   
Bellamy had, in fact,  _ not  _ known this. 

“Five-hundred says you don’t get that magical interview of yours, Blake.”

Pike has turned this into a game, and if he loses, he loses five-hundred dollars. And they both know full well he can’t afford that, not really. 

But still, he finds his mind drifting back to the face printed on the paper residing in his pocket, and shaking Pike’s hand is easy.

What he’s done doesn’t really register until Pike chuckles, satisfied. Bellamy gives him a strained smile, not letting himself dwell on the deal he just made. He’s not going to lose, anyway - no use thinking about what would happen if he does. 

Pike doesn’t hesitate to remind him, though. “And to think - you already owe me another five-hundred. After this, you’ll be into me for a thousand, Blake. I’d advise you to hedge your bets, but, well… seems it’s already too late for that,” he says, tone laced with pretend sympathy.

Resisting the urge to roll his eyes, Bellamy reaches for the door handle, opening it before Pike has the chance to reel him in once more. “We’ll see about that,” he shrugs. “By the time you’re done reading this story, I’ll be halfway back to New York,” Bellamy promises, eyebrow raised. 

He doesn’t give Pike the opportunity to say more, slipping out the door and letting it fall shut behind him. Back in the main office, Monty, Harper, and Gabriel look up at him, and he feels as though he can finally breathe - despite the incredibly stupid bet he’d made moments ago. 

“Sounds like that went terribly,” Monty teases, and Harper hums her agreement.

Bellamy answers only with a winded laugh, and Harper looks at him in concern before she returns to her work. Monty follows suit. 

Still leaning against the door to Pike’s office, Bellamy frantically reaches for the folded paper still in his pocket, unfolding it so quickly it almost rips. 

His eyes find the face of Princess Clarke looking back at him, elegance evident even in black and white shades of the photograph. 

He knows, though, that her skin isn’t quite as pale as the photograph makes it out to be. He knows that her smile is less careful, less guarded - freer. And he knows that the eyes that stare up at him through the photo are blue. 

He knows, because he’d watched her smile at him the night before, watched her cheeks flush in excitement, watched her eyes fill with amusement as she’d laughed. 

He knows, because the face that looks up at him from the photograph is the same face he’d seen lost in sleep in his apartment less than an hour ago. 

He had completely unknowingly spent the night with Clarke Griffin - and now, thanks to his bet with Pike, he was going to make sure he spent the rest of the day with her. 

* * *

Clarke wakes up in a room that isn’t hers. 

Of course, she doesn’t know if she really ever had a room to begin with. Sure, there are her quarters in her own palace at home, but she's paraded around so often across the continent that it had never really felt like her own room anyway.

Still, her heart stutters when she opens her eyes and sees a pipe attached to the ceiling above her, when she notices the lack of crown molding and gaudy curtains and expensive rugs.

_ This isn’t where she is supposed to be.  _

She sits up a little too fast, desperate to see more, or maybe just  _ desperate.  _ For what, she supposes, she’s not sure.

The mattress underneath her is not hers and the pajamas she’s wearing are not hers and the cramped apartment around her is  _ not hers.  _

For the first time in a long time, she feels something almost like fear. 

She hears a soft, “morning,” but she’s too busy taking in the apartment to spare a glance at the speaker. It’s small, but… but nice, she decides. The curtains sway slightly in the breeze floating through the open window - the only window in the space.

The table, or desk, maybe, in the corner of the room is littered with papers and glasses and pens, a jacket draped over the chair in front of it. 

It’s somewhere she’d like to live, maybe, if she wasn’t… if she wasn’t who she is. 

With that concluding thought, she pulls herself from her brief observations, turning to face the man who had spoken to her. 

He stands a few feet from the bed, hands shoved into his pockets. He watches her casually, almost like he’s greeting a friend, but she knows she isn’t friends with this man. 

She recognizes him, she realizes. From where, she can’t place, but she remembers him saying something she hadn’t felt like listening to.

His face is kind, but she doesn’t answer, instead looking him over. It’s most likely  _ his  _ home, she realizes. 

_ How did I get here why am I here how did I get here why am I here I need to go.  _

She doesn’t say any of that, though, ask any of that, instead clearing her throat. “Who are you?”

  
It’s the most logical thing to ask, she decides, no matter how cliche. There’s no point letting the panic rise, letting it consume her. Her voice isn’t as strong as she’d hoped, isn’t as demanding, but he doesn’t seem to notice. 

His answering laugh is kind, reassuring. “Yeah, I should’ve realized you’d be confused, you were… you were kind of out of it last night. Name’s Bellamy Blake.”

  
She doesn’t return his smile. She doesn’t know anything about him, has no reason to trust him. 

  
She doesn’t remember ‘last night,’ and she decides that’s the scariest thing. She doesn’t remember how she got here, who Bellamy is, how she met him. He acts, though, like she  _ should  _ remember. 

“Is this… is this yours?” She questions next, not offering her own name as she nods around the room. Her eyes never leave him, though. She doesn’t have the luxury of relaxing, of trusting him. 

“Yeah,” he answers quickly, leaning a shoulder against the wall. “This is my mansion. No need to be so thrilled.”

His joke is wary, she realizes, like he’s testing the waters. He doesn’t realize she is, too. Still, she can’t help her small laugh, able to breathe just a little easier. 

“Why am I here, then? You didn’t… you didn’t bring me here, right?”

  
She’s scared to hear his answer, but still, she looks at him expectantly, waiting for him to offer more. 

His expression turns to one of amusement. “No, actually, you kind of invited yourself along.” The way he says it isn’t unkind, isn’t threatening, and again, she finds herself letting confusion replace her initial stoicism. “Have I been here all night, then?”  Again, she can’t decide whether she really wants to hear his answer or not. 

But he gives her a half shrug, and an almost apologetic smile. “Yeah.”

  
“So I spent the night with you?”

  
“Well, I wouldn’t… I wouldn’t really say it like that, but - I guess?”

They both just look at each other a moment, but after a beat, it’s Clarke that laughs - shocked, stunned, even, but genuine. She’d spent the night in an apartment that wasn’t hers, with Bellamy, somehow, and her fear evaporates into disbelief. She’d done that - she’d broken a thousand rules, and vaguely, somewhere in the back of her mind, she decides she isn’t sorry. 

Bellamy’s guarded expression turns into a grin, and he reaches a hand out to shake hers. After a moment of hesitation, she takes it. “Delighted to meet you, Bellamy.”

She hopes she means it.

“The pleasure’s all mine,” he gives her a warm nod, seemingly sincere. She notes the way he taps his finger against the bedpost, almost like  _ he’s _ nervous. She smiles inwardly at this, glad to know she isn’t the only one on edge. 

If she’d invited herself here, like he’d implied, she wouldn’t be surprised. 

“You can sit down,” she blurts, gesturing to the space on the bed besides her. He gives her a look that she can’t quite place, but sits down all the same, and she pulls her legs to her knees to make more room. 

Clarke knows she should be in a hurry to leave, knows she should be out the door already, but she can’t quite bring herself to end whatever  _ this  _ is. Far from the bustling confines of the embassy, from the orders and decrees, tucked away in a quiet, mundane block of Rome, she feels  _ happy.  _ Peaceful, even, despite the fact that she really has no idea where she is or even how she got here. 

It’s nice all the same, she decides, listening to the shouts of kids playing outside drift through the window. 

Bellamy watches her, eyes curious, but neither of them say anything, just taking each other in - Clarke more than him. 

Although she can’t quite trust him yet, she decides she likes him just fine. He’s been honest with her, so far, and seems genuine. 

His brown hair is messy, like he’d been in a hurry this morning, and the tie around his neck is just as haphazard. It’s charming, in a way, she decides. Maybe he’d gone somewhere before she’d woken, and it’s then that she realizes she may be imposing more than she’d realized.

  
Before she can deduce more, he interrupts their lingered silence. “I wasn’t trying to kidnap you, or anything,” he jokes. “In case you were worried about that. I think you were drunk last night - maybe don’t drink more than you can handle, next time.” His tone is teasing, and she gives him a forced smile.

She wasn’t drunk, she vaguely registers. No, she’d been… she’d been upset, yes, at the Embassy. She’d been angry at the Countess, tired of playing puppet. It comes back to her with stomach churning clarity. She’d been angry, and Jackson had given her some kind of drug to calm her down. But it had only made her seem drunk, apparently.

_ Lively jazz drifting through the arched window of her quarters, taunting. _

_ Running down the long hall of the embassy, taking the stairs two at a time.  _

_ A bench next to a sidewalk, a moon gazing down upon her from a night sky she couldn’t reach.  _

_ A poem she’d laughed through the recitation of. _

And Bellamy - he’d found her. 

She’d been lucky, then, that it had been Bellamy, and that he seemingly hadn’t recognized her. The vulnerability of her situation is not lost on her - she’d been  _ so  _ lucky. And  _ so  _ stupid. 

Still, Clarke couldn’t quite find it in herself to regret what she’d done. Instead, she relishes the way her victory tastes on her tongue, bittersweet. 

“I remember,” she tells Bellamy softly. “Thought I could handle alcohol better than that.” The lie is easy, despite the fact that she’s never once been drunk in her life.

Something reminiscent of surprise flashes across Bellamy’s features. “Don’t worry about it. Happens to the best of us,” he consoles. “Anyways, you wouldn’t tell me your address, and I couldn’t leave you there like you were, so we came here.

  
She’s grateful for his explanation, and relief washes over her. Nothing had happened, then. She could live with embarrassment. “Thank you,” is all she manages to answer with. “That was… kind of you.”

He runs a hand through his hair, ducking his head. “You could pay me back by telling me your name.”

She laughs easily, knowing that she owed him much more than just that. “Oh. It’s Clar-”  _ No.  _ “Clara. You can call me Clara.”

Because here, she could not be Clarke Griffin. She was a girl Bellamy had found half asleep on a bench in the middle of the city who needed a place to stay. That’s all. She was not a princess. She was a girl. 

For the briefest moment, she lets herself bask in the freedom that Clara brings her. 

Bellamy gives her a smile she can’t quite read before rising from the edge of the bed. “Well, Clara,” he begins, extending his hand to help her up. “ _ Piacere.” _

His accent is terrible, she observes with a quiet breath. She supposes hers would be, too - she’d never paid enough attention in her lessons, as Jaha so frequently liked to remind her. Her German never quite sounded right, her French always lacked the language’s elegance, and her Italian… Jaha had deemed it barely passable, much to Clarke’s indignance, before they had left for her tour. Still, she understood enough Italian to decipher Bellamy’s  _ ‘pleased to meet you.’ _

She takes his hand, letting him pull her to her feet. “Coffee?” He asks, gesturing to a small coffee pot on the desk, a small stack of mugs next to it. 

Clarke shakes her head. “No, thank you,” she murmurs, instead taking the time to look around Bellamy’s apartment once more. Again, she feels strangely drawn to it, to the scratched hardwood floors underneath her feet and the half painted walls. 

Bellamy turns his attention away from her to pour himself a mug of coffee. Clarke finds herself in front of his window, pulling away the curtains to look outside. 

Rome’s warm summer air is soft against her skin as she peers out into the city. The street below is nearly empty, save for a small group of kids chasing each other up and down the block. Further away, though, she can make out carts of fruit and vendors lining the streets. 

She falls in love with it the moment she sees it. 

The next thing she notices is the sun, already high in the sky, uninterrupted by clouds. 

At this, her stomach drops. 

“Bellamy - er, Mr. Blake,” she breathes. “Do you know - do you know what time it is?”

  
She turns to face him, and he squints at a small alarm clock she hadn’t noticed resting on the nightstand next to the bed. “Looks like one thirty. You had a late night.”

The panic floods back before Clarke has a chance to strangle it this time, stealing the breath from her lungs.  _ One thirty.  _

She’d had a full schedule today, that much she remembers.  _ Eight thirty breakfast nine o’clock appearance ten thirty-five more appearances ten fifty-five give a speech eleven forty five press conference one o’clock lunch and more and more and more- _

“Everything alright, Clara?” Bellamy’s voice interrupts her frantic spiralling, and he watches her with concern. 

“I need to go,” she finds herself stuttering out, picking the clock up to analyze for herself. Like Bellamy had told her, it reads right at one twenty-eight. “I need - I need to get dressed, and I need to go. Now.”

  
Bellamy sets his coffee mug down on the desk. “Is everything okay? I mean - why the sudden hurry? There’s lots of time.”

  
Running a hand through her undone hair, Clarke shakes her head. “No, I have -” she catches herself before she can say something wrong, let him know something she’d rather keep to herself. “I’ve just been enough trouble to you as it is, Mr. Blake,” she tells him with an apologetic smile. “I’d hate to keep you any longer.”

“You’re no trouble,” he assures her quickly, shoving his hands in his pockets. 

“I’d think a girl you don’t know practically inviting herself to your apartment for the night would be at least a  _ little  _ trouble,” Clarke raises a brow. 

At this, Bellamy laughs. “Alright, maybe a  _ little _ ,” he concedes with a wink. “Look - don’t worry about it. I’ll run a bath for you,” he offers, bating his breath. 

She knows she should say no. Knows she has places to be, and probably has everyone in the embassy worried about her. Still, she finds herself drawn to the protection Clara offers her, drawn to the sheer ordinariness the apartment, drawn to this little, forgettable street in Rome. 

  
So, after a moment of deep consideration, she concedes with a nod. “Alright,” she agrees. “But after that, I really should go.”

  
Bellamy doesn’t answer, slipping into the bathroom without another word. While she waits, she finds her clothes from the day before folded neatly near the bathroom door. She picks them up without a second thought, the soft fabric of her white blouse comforting in her hands. 

When Bellamy returns from the bathroom, the bathwater running behind him, he gestures towards the bathroom. “All yours, Clara.”

  
She returns his smile, ducking into the bathroom as he moves away from the door. When the door closes behind her, she lets out a deep breath. The bathroom is much the same as the rest of the apartment - unextraordinary, forgettable. Yet she finds herself strangely enthralled with the cracked tile and the dim light. 

It’s almost like a sanctuary, she decides - this apartment. Within its walls, she doesn’t have to be Clarke Griffin, heir to a throne she’s never particularly wanted. She relishes this newfound freedom, leaning against the bathroom door. 

While she’s here, while she’s with Bellamy, she can be Clara just a little longer. 

She can be anybody she wants - anybody but herself.

* * *

The first thing Bellamy does after she disappears into the bathroom is call Murphy. 

Things had seemed to be going…  _ well.  _ At least, that’s what Bellamy thinks. The only real trouble he’d had was moving her from the ottoman to the bed once he’d arrived back at his apartment in the morning, her still asleep, because it wasn’t like he could have forced Princess Clarke Griffin to sleep on an ottoman all night. 

Ultimately, he’d just had to pick her up and all but throw her onto the bed. It hadn’t woken her up, though, and she didn’t seem to remember anything about it when she'd finally woken up

After she commandeers the bathroom, he slips out of his apartment quietly, closing the door gently behind him so the princess inside doesn’t hear. If she found out who she was, what he was trying to do - it’d all be over. And he can’t lose this story. 

He takes the stairs at a dangerous place before he reaches the gates of the apartment complex, crossing the street to the sculpting workshop across the street. It’s the nearest phone to his apartment, and he borrows it often - mostly to call Octavia - so when he enters, knocking against the doorframe, the men working inside greet him warmly. 

Instead of waiting for him to ask, one of the men just gestures to the empty phone on a table in the corner of the workshop. Bellamy nods his thanks, nearly tripping over his own feet to get to the glossy black phone. 

It takes him a moment to dial Murphy’s phone, fingers shaking as he does so. He  _ needs  _ Murphy for this to work - unfortunately. 

The phone rings, and Bellamy holds his breath. It rings again. And again. As he waits, Bellamy takes the folded newspaper photo out of his pocket one last time, just to make  _ sure  _ the face in ink matches the one he’d spoken to in his apartment mere minutes ago.    
It does. Perfectly. 

Again the phone rings. Stifling a groan, Bellamy’s just started to give up hope when he hears a click, and Murphy’s confused _buongiorno_ \- his Italian admittedly far better than Bellamy’s own, as he’s been living in Rome for over five years, now - on the other end of the line. 

“Took you long enough,” Bellamy can’t help but mutter to his friend. “Look, Murphy, it’s Bellamy,” he starts, glancing through the open doorway across the gates of his apartment building. “Can you get over here in about five minutes?”

“Aw, Bellamy, you miss me already?” Murphy jokes on the other end, sarcasm clear in his voice muffled through the phone. 

Rolling his eyes, Bellamy shoves the photo of the princess back into his pocket, not having time for Murphy’s usual antics. “Seriously, Murphy, I need you to get over here. Now.” 

  
“I’m busy, Blake,” Murphy tells him. “I’m working. I know that’s kind of a foreign concept to you, but some of us-”

“ _ Murphy. _ ”

“Can’t come. Sorry,” is Murphy’s only response. 

Bellamy sighs in frustration. “No, Murphy, listen - I have a story, and it needs pictures to go with it.” Murphy is the best photographer the American News Service has, whether Bellamy wanted to admit it or not, and Bellamy trusts him - most of the time. There's no one else he can ask. “Please.”

  
A pause, and Murphy’s voice ring through the line once more. “What kind of story?”

  
At least they're getting somewhere, Bellamy figures. “I can’t… I can’t tell you now, on the phone.” He glances around at the men working around him, biting his lip. “But I can tell you it’s a big one. More than that. Front page stuff, Murphy! And it needs  _ pictures. _ ”

Murphy’s tone is almost apologetic when he speaks next. “Listen, Blake, I’m working with a model right now - I can’t just drop everything.” Bellamy’s face falls. “And besides, I told Emori I’d meet her for lunch at that little cafe near the fountain in half an hour - you know the one. Rocca’s, I think? Anyways,” Murphy continues as Bellamy runs a hand through his hair. “I can’t come. Especially if you won’t even tell me what the story is. I'm sorry."

  
He hangs up before Bellamy can get another word in, and Bellamy feels a wave of desperation crash through him. He’d promised Pike pictures - that was half the deal. He needs Murphy.

He’ll call him again later, then - figure out  _ some  _ way to meet up with him. He’d thank him eventually, when Pike coughed up the money he’d vowed. 

Hanging up the phone in frustration, he gives the men in the shop one last thanks before he hurries back to his own apartment. He freezes, though, when he opens the door. 

The bed has been made, extra blankets stacked on the ottoman. Next to them, the pajamas he’d let Clarke borrow are also in a neatly folded pile. The curtains covering the windows have been drawn back, letting sunlight filter into the room. 

But no Clarke. 

For a moment, he’s worried she left, and he just didn’t see - but then, his eyes land on the propped open door to the balcony on his right. 

  
Steeling himself, trying to hide his mounting worry about Murphy and the photographs and the whole interview in general, Bellamy walks out onto the balcony, squinting at the brightness waiting for him outside. 

  
Clarke doesn’t look up as he leans against the railing besides her, instead remaining her gaze on the city sprawled out in front of them. She’s wearing the same outfit she was last night, the long sleeves of her blouse rolled up to accommodate for the summer sun. 

Neither of them say anything for the few minutes that follow, Bellamy sneaking the occasional glance in Clarke’s direction while she watches the streets below them, clearly lost in her own head. It made sense to him, now, why she'd been so awestruck at the taxi last night - this is all new to her. She’d probably never had to slum it in a taxi before last night. He wonders what else she’s seeing for the first time now. 

“It’s beautiful here,” Clarke remarks eventually, voice soft. “I was just watching all the people.”

  
On the street underneath them, kids run up and down the block, playing some sort of game Bellamy doesn’t understand. Vendors pushing carts full of produce and other goods pass by occasionally, shouting in dismay if the kids get too close. 

He’d never really thought of it beautiful, though. But now, taking sunlight dappled against the cobblestone street, the ivy vines climbing up the stone building opposite them, he wonders if she’s right. 

“Yeah, it’s got its perks,” he agrees, giving her a half smile. “Prettier than my old place in New York, I guess.” 

At this, her eyes meet his, alight with curiosity. “You’re from New York?” 

  
“Born and raised,” Bellamy confesses, and she grins. “I’ve lived here for the past few years, though.”

  
“Do you miss it? New York, I mean.”

  
Bellamy thinks for a moment, looking once again out at the streets of Rome, the sky a brilliant blue. And at Clarke, taking it all in like she hopes she’ll remember all of it, every single detail. “Sometimes.”

  
It’s all he can give her. She nods in silent understanding, hands wrapped around the balcony railing as she takes a deep breath before she turns to face him, wistfulness written across her face. “I… I have to go.”

She says it like she doesn’t want to, and a part of Bellamy wonders if that’s the truth. “What?”

  
“I just waited to say goodbye, and thank you,” she explains, looking him over. “You’ve been… extremely kind to me, Mr. Blake. But I should go.”

  
She couldn’t go yet - not before he got Murphy to take some pictures, not before he’d even really gotten a story. “You sure? We’ve barely even met, you know. What about breakfast?”

  
He knows he’s grasping at straws now, a pathetic attempt to convince her to stay. Still, she remains adamant, offering him an apologetic smile. “I’m afraid I don’t have time. Thank you, though.”

  
She starts back towards the apartment door, and Bellamy hurries after her, at her heels. “At least let me walk you there,” he offers. “Wherever you’re going, I mean.”

While his mind desperately searches for something to convince her to stay, any kind of plan that can help him out, Clarke only shakes her head quickly. “No, I shouldn’t want to trouble you more. I’m sure I can find it alright,” she assures him. 

She stands in the middle of his apartment now, looking around it one last time with reverence. “Thank you for letting me sleep here,” she gestures to the bed with a gloved hand before her eyes fix on the ottoman next to it. “And sorry I made you sleep on the couch.”

“Ah, don’t worry - I do it all the time.”

  
Her answering laugh doesn’t last long. “I should go, then,” she says at last, extending her hand to him one last time. He shakes it as she speaks. “You know, Mr. Blake,” she muses. “I’m glad to have met you.” 

He only responds with a chuckle, still vainly trying to find a way to get her not to leave, but then she’s murmuring goodbye and he is too, and he can only watch as a five thousand dollar story walks out the door of his apartment.

He’s left standing in the middle of his room, hands in his pockets and a grim look on his face. 

He needs to figure something out. Fast.  Before he has the chance, though, Clarke suddenly reappears at her door, and for just a moment he thinks she’ll take him up on his offer about breakfast, long enough for him to get ahold of Murphy again, and get  _ something  _ out of the princess. 

  
But that’s not what she says. “I forgot,” she apologizes. “I don’t have any money.”

  
He understands what she’s trying to ask him immediately, and finds his wallet from the nightstand. Trying to hide the sheer pain of losing  _ more  _ money to her, he glances up at Clarke. “How much do you need?”

  
Her brow furrows. “I don’t really know. How much do you have?”

  
_ Not a whole hell of a lot.  _ He pulls out a wad of cash from his wallet, though, thumbing through it. “Here - we can split this fifty fifty,” he tells her before handing over a few bills. “It’s a thousand lira.”

  
She looks worried. “That sounds like a lot.”

  
“It’s about a dollar and a half.”

  
Relief floods her face, and she gives him an appreciative grin. “I’ll have someone send money back to you, once I get… home. What is your address?”

Bellamy lists it off to her, and she recites it back. “Via Margutta 51. Bellamy Blake.” At his nod of approval, she straightens, money in hand. “Thank you, Mr. Blake.”

  
“Take care of yourself, Clara.”

  
And once again, she leaves. 

  
But this time, Bellamy has something that vaguely resembles a plan. As she walks back out the door and out of sight, he hurries back to the large balcony. From his position two stories above the street, he watches as Clarke makes her way down the street, narrowly avoiding a passing bicyclist. 

Once she’s rounded a corner, Bellamy re enters his room, hastily grabbing a jacket and throwing it on, slipping his wallet into his pocket as he moves towards the door. 

He’s not going to lose this story - he can’t afford it. Murphy or no Murphy, he was going to get this exclusive, and it was going to be plastered all over the front of the paper, and he’d go  _ home  _ \- back to the states, back to New York.

Clarke Griffin was an opportunity; a five thousand dollar paycheck, a smug grin on his face as he told Pike he was leaving, a plane ticket back to Octavia. 

At least, that’s what he tells himself as he locks his apartment door behind him, and sets off down the street, in the same direction Clarke Griffin had gone.


End file.
